


Ruinous Child

by OldShrewsburyian



Series: Dangerous Ends [6]
Category: The Hour
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Freddie is hopeless as usual, Gen, London
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 06:06:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12550852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldShrewsburyian/pseuds/OldShrewsburyian
Summary: Set just before "Dinner of Herbs," this sees Freddie home.





	Ruinous Child

**Author's Note:**

  * For [middlemarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/gifts).



Verity comes down with him to the pavement. He notes that she knows better than to ask him whether he wants her to, or even to open the question by saying she will; she simply never leaves his elbow. “You ought to have a hat, really,” says Verity, doing up the buttons of his coat with quick fingers on the threshold. 

“I never wear a hat.”

“Well, but—”

“It is a risk: people will probably assume I’m an escaped convict, and make themselves a nuisance to our fine police.”

Verity giggles, fixing his scarf before turning to scan the street. “The cab was ordered for 11.”

“Well, I made very good time on the hallway.”

“You did—ah, that one must be yours.”

She stays protectively on his bad side as they emerge onto the crowded pavement. The driver has the back door open long before his fare, holding his cane like a weapon, is ready to climb in.

“Thank you, Nurse Allen,” says Freddie softly. His smile calls forward her own bright one in response. “You’ve been very kind.” 

“It’s been no trouble,” says the girl, and stretches to peck her patient on the cheek—in defiance, he suspects, of regulations. “Good luck, Mr. Lyon.”

“Thank you, Verity. Don’t let them quash your instincts.”

She has left the pavement before the driver has succeeded in moving back into the traffic.  
Dizzied by the number of vehicles, he finds himself examining his own reflection in the driver’s mirror, thinking how washed-out and patched-together he looks. 

“You have the address?” He speaks for the sake of ending his own reverie.

“I do, sir.” The driver pulls smoothly out onto Eastbourne Terrace. Around them, London is almost intrusively solid, bustling, noisy. 

He finds himself breathing more easily as they enter familiar streets. The driver, in contrast, is visibly disconcerted—whether by the broken steps and broken windows, or by the unfamiliar faces, it is impossible to tell. But: “You’re all right, sir,” says the man with professional heartiness as he opens the back door of the cab, finding his fare exploring his pockets with tremulous hands. “All paid up by your good lady, and handsomely too.” 

“Ah,” says Freddie. “Yes. She worries. Thank you.” He gives his cane into one of the cabbie’s hands, and his own arm (easily grasped) into the other.

“You’ll… be all right then, sir?”

“I’ll be fine. Haven’t fallen down these steps since I was about six.”

The man beams, apparently cheered by this biographical detail. “That’s champion, then.”

“Thank you again.”

“Don’t mention it.” 

He is conscious, nonetheless, of the man’s scrutiny at his back as he tackles the stairs. The door is opened before he is halfway up the stoop.

“Freddie!” says Sey. “Welcome home!”

“Sey!” He is surprised to find his knees gone suddenly weak with relief; the other man is at his elbow before he has time to falter. “I didn’t expect you’d be here.”

“Well, I’m not on duty at the hospital till late, so I thought I’d keep an eye out.” 

“I’m glad. Kind of you to take the trouble.”

“Not at all. It’s good to have you back.” Sey’s eyes are professionally observant, but he seems genuinely—even effulgently—pleased.

Freddie takes a deep breath. “It seems a long time.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from John Buchan's novel _Huntingtower_ , in which it is applied to Thomas Yownie, famous for being valiant to the point of recklessness, unable to be 'fickled': "Into the hall from the verandah limped a boy. Never was there seen so ruinous a child. He was dripping wet, his shirt was all but torn off his back, his bleeding nose was poorly staunched by a wisp of handkerchief, his breeches were in ribbons, and his poor bare legs looked as if they had been comprehensively kicked and scratched. Limpingly he entered, yet with a kind of pride, like some small cock-sparrow who has lost most of his plumage but has vanquished his adversary.”


End file.
